


Lex Talionis

by lasuen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hand Job, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, SAW allusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasuen/pseuds/lasuen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Sherlock’s investigative endeavours he suffers a trauma to his hands - his wrists are bandaged, and for a month he cannot move them. So he has to fall back onto John’s help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lex Talionis

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Принцип талиона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/986403) by [SerenityS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityS/pseuds/SerenityS). 



> T/N: Heartfelt thanks to SerenityS who is the author of this story and to my beta halloa_what_is_this.

Sherlock’s mind overflows with numbers.

19, the circle is closed.

18th of October.

17 victims.

16 corpses.

15-year-old was the congressman’s son whose location had been tracked down. The boy remained physically unscathed, however, the same couldn’t be said about his state of mind.

14A and 14B were the airplane seats they occupied to fly to Washington upon the FBI’s request.

13th floor in Hotel Madison. It was 12B, technically speaking, but for all intents and purposes it was the 13th.

12 hours spent on picking up the maniac’s trace and rescuing the boy.

11 dollars and 10 minutes to have a quick bite in a diner at the corner.

9 a.m. was the time of their arrival.

8 hours of boredom on a plane, the three of which John managed to sleep.

7 words scribbled on a shred of paper.

6 cups of god-awful coffee.

5 bullets fired out of Smith & Wesson’s magazine.

4 hours to track down the maniac only to kill him in an attempt at resistance. Of course. _Idiots._

3 years was for how long the killer had been wreaking havoc in the district of Columbia.

2 months was the interval at which he kidnapped his victims.

1 hour it took Sherlock to fail at calling or finding John.

Less than a second to recognise the killer’s handwriting and realise that John had become the twelfth victim. The circle was closed.

Not that many chances given the lack of clues and the corpse of the main suspect. Practically zero.

A mocking scrap of a note in the hotel room with a smile in lieu of a signature.

Fuck the numbers.

***

Sherlock Holmes does not believe in miracles, but it’s a miracle he hopes for as he heads to the very first crime scene, having all but failed to convince the special agent and idiot Sanders that his people are looking in the wrong direction.

Sherlock trusts his logic and his brain, although now emotions get in the way of singling out effectively relevant data out of the stack of numbers and details. Sherlock tries not to think of what John might be going through. Not to think of the fact that nobody yet managed to get out of it alive.

Numbers are safer.

19 – his thoughts keep coming back to it. His thoughts are going around in circles, tangling and returning back to the beginning. Sherlock had meddled with a perfectly thought-through plan, and the murderer had to break the rules to ensure that the cycle was finished. The nineteenth victim, his exceptional companion and only friend. From 19 to 1. Failures in both directions. Start all over again.

Benjamin Franklin on the banknote, and the cab driver picks up the speed.

Hurrying to the first crime scene, to the very beginning.

Sherlock Holmes wants to believe that the perfectionist maniac was an idiot after all.

***

When Sherlock reaches the first crime scene and finds John, alive, his head throbs with triumph but his heart beats with nothing but fear. At the sight of blood and two sharp blades right at John’s throat Sherlock’s pulse quickens and his palms become moist with sweat.

_JohnJohnJohn_

“Sherlock.”

Relief. Worry.

John’s sweaty hair is sticking to his forehead, his fingers covered in blood. He isn’t chained, but should he attempt to free himself, the blades will cut right into the skin.

“God, how is this—“ Sherlock examines the device. “These idiots killed him and I had to—“

“You know,” John interrupts. “That’s not something I’d want to talk about in my last three minutes.”

Of course. There is always a countdown. The clock on the opposite wall shows three minutes to six.

Three minutes, two tanks with acid behind John, and only one right choice.

“How does it work? What do I do?”

This is a trial for two, and the maniac has gone against his own rules even here. John can’t have let himself relax for hours, while Sherlock has mere seconds to end it.

“Don’t.”

“Donot even dare totalk me out of it, you understand? Did he explain to you how it worked?”

John swallows.

“What if it’s a trap, and I’ll still— You don’t have to risk it.”

Sherlock hates him for these words.

“How. Does. It. Work?” His eyes lock into John’s, their noses almost touching.

There is something in Sherlock’s eyes to make John believe he is prepared to play it by ear, should it come to that.

“It should have two small levers, you need to lift them. Only not the other way around, otherwise you’ll trigger the trap.”

Sherlock looks over to the clock again, then down at John. The horror that engulfs John would suffice for two.

John had once said that Sherlock has beautiful hands, but it doesn’t matter anymore. John would live.

With that thought in mind, Sherlock gets down to his knees and does what he is supposed to do, unwilling to waste precious seconds on fear.

The clash of metal and Sherlock’s following scream would haunt John’s mind for a long time.

***

“John, change the channel,” Sherlock demanded.

“What the— I changed it a minute ago,” John protested.

“John.”

John got up from the desk, approached the sofa where Sherlock sat with his legs drawn up beneath him, and started flipping through the channels until—

“There,” Sherlock stopped without sparing him a look.

John left the remote on the sofa and went back to the desk, slightly limping on his other leg.

As luck would have it, he got out of the whole ordeal with just a sprained ankle and two thin cuts on his throat that itched at night. Sherlock, who dipped his hands in 40% sulphuric acid solution, was, of course, less fortunate.

Luckily, Sherlock did not require any skin transplants, so after keeping him hospitalised for a couple of days the doctors let them fly home. Sherlock slept all eight hours of the return flight. Or pretended to. As for John, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t doze off and instead kept throwing glances at Sherlock’s bandaged wrists at a loss for what to feel. _Three minutes away from death_. Balancing on the very edge of it exhausted him. He knew he was supposed to feel grateful, but so far there was only guilt. Sherlock had already commented on it at the hospital when John tried to tell him how sorry he was and—

“I don’t want to listen to this nonsense,” Sherlock had cut him short.

John’s eyebrows had shot up in surprise.

“First, I do not tolerate pity. Second, you would’ve done the same, so drop it. You won’t persuade me that any of my extremities are more precious than your life.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Good for you.”

“What kind of person are you that you can’t even accept an apology?”

“There’s nothing to apologise for. You’re perfectly aware of all the cause and effect. If anything—“ Sherlock had crossed his arms in front of himself, hiding his face. “You simply need to get it off your chest, and I’m not the best person for it. So unless you know a way for me to excuse my own stupidity, it’s better you get back to your ward.”

“Fat chance,” John had grunted. “I didn’t escape the nurse and hobble all the way from the second to the fourth floor only to go back after five minutes.”

Sherlock had smiled. John knew him too well. The mere fact that Sherlock was trying to touch a nerve didn’t mean he indeed wanted to be left on his own.

“Why the stairs?” Sherlock had asked.

“They watch the elevators, but not the stairs,” John had explained with a smirk.

After that, they didn’t talk about apologies anymore.

They didn’t talk much to begin with, having communicated mostly in a tactile way for three weeks now.

John assisted Sherlock in almost everything, be it dressing and undressing or updating his website.

Not counting a guilty look he occasionally caught on John’s face, more than anything Sherlock got annoyed by the fact that now John was making him eat three meals a day under the excuse that Sherlock required proper nutrition in order to recover. Not that he didn’t want to, but during being fed by John Sherlock felt the most helpless. John, for his part, got embarrassed when he had to wash Sherlock or hold his penis in the bathroom. However, at that Sherlock showed no particular unease so John quickly got used to it. After all, he was a doctor, and a male body, even that of a close friend’s, was not supposed to make him feel uncomfortable.

John played chess with Sherlock and turned book pages, took him to doctor’s and gave him painkillers before sleep.

If only there was a cure for the boredom. Tedium tormented Sherlock even more than the pain or the realisation that his hands would be covered in scars and he would possibly suffer from tendon problems.

“Jo-ohn—“

Oh, and he kept making John flip through channels. Constantly.

“Switch back to that cartoon,” Sherlock asked. “And you can just take your laptop and sit next to me.”

John sighed, picked up his computer and charging cord, and relocated to the sofa.

“Happy now?” he inquired, with his laptop neatly settled in his lap.

“Quite,” Sherlock’s lips curved in a sly smile.

“So, any particular reason for that?” John asked after a minute while concentrating on tapping with two fingers.

“Hm?”

“I flipped it over to where you wanted, but you keep looking at me instead,” he clarified”.

“Ah. Naturally.”

“Care to share?”

Sherlock turned back to the screen.

“No.” A smile.

John smiled back, possibly at Sherlock, possibly at some of his own thoughts.

By now he had lost track of how much time he was spending with Sherlock. They all but slept together.

And as for that, they both slept restlessly. As soon as John closed his eyes he kept seeing Sherlock on that ill-fated day. He saw Sherlock fall on his back, trying to stifle chest-ripping groans, hands shaking, and his skin going first white and then being covered in spots. At that, Sherlock even managed to ask John if he was all right and then dictate the address as soon as John reached for the phone in his pocket to phone for the ambulance. And then, capturing Sherlock’s face in his palms, John kept repeating “everything will be all right”, although he himself was scared to death that it would not be.

John would fall asleep, and everything would crash down, leaving gashes and blood on his fingers. If he fell asleep at all.

When insomnia would trap him for good, John wandered around the flat, sat in the darkened kitchen and drank cold milk. At times he would stand by the door to Sherlock’s bedroom where Sherlock slept uneasily and, it seemed, counted in his sleep again.

John wanted to come in and wake him up, but he was afraid that after crossing the threshold of Sherlock’s bedroom he would also cross some other invisible line. And then everything would certainly not be all right.

However, he had yet to revise his stance on that point.

*** 

There were days when John had no nightmares and Sherlock felt good and didn’t even complain about boredom.

Today was that kind of day.

During supper Sherlock asked for more curry and then enjoyed the second portion of it. They laughed when John missed his mouth. Feeding someone was still a hell of a task. At times a piece of food would drop from the fork down to the table, at times sauce would end up on the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

“Delicious,” he said, licking his lips.

“Really?” John smiled. Supper indeed was a success that evening.

“Although you aim better with a gun than with a fork.”

“Still could kill with it,” John said and both of them burst out laughing.

The evening was going just fine until it was time for bathing procedures.

“Maybe not tonight. I don’t feel like it,” Sherlock faltered as John set to pulling his shirt upward.

John was going to undress Sherlock and then wash him, carefully showering him and avoiding bandages while Sherlock kept his arms out of the water’s way or on John’s shoulders. All in all, their routine procedure.

“You said the same yesterday, what’s the matter?” John stopped. “Are you suddenly shy of me?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, ears tinged with a tell-tale blush.

“Then why the objections?” John pulled Sherlock’s trousers all the way down, going down on one knee. “Oh.”

Sherlock’s erected cock stared directly into John’s face.

“It seems I have a little problem,” Sherlock admitted with discontent.

“Well, from my point of view…” John stood up.

“Looks like your three-meal-a-day policy is soon going to make me _normal_ ,” Sherlock sighed. “I thought it’d go away on its own. Give me a sedative or something. It’s not like you have to—“

“Actually, I think I could.” John swallowed and laid his palm flat against Sherlock’s abdomen gingerly. “If you want me to.”

“I do,” Sherlock answered briefly, and after a moment’s pause John stepped behind Sherlock and wrapped his palm around his cock.

“For how long?” John asked, moving his hand at an easy pace.

“Since you… mmm… brushed my hair.”

“Oh.”

So that’s why Sherlock had had such a blissful look while John fought a lost battle with his curls. It meant John wasn’t mistaken in thinking that Sherlock’s head might very well be an erogenous zone. In all the possible ways.

Impatient, Sherlock thrust his hips into his hand and John realised he himself was getting quite aroused. His heart thrummed. He picked up the speed and made sure not to press himself against Sherlock, his free hand gripping the edge of the sink.

Trying not to snuggle up to Sherlock turned out to be a bit of a pickle since Sherlock now moved too, vigorously thrusting his hips backwards, his breathing hard and irregular. Unable to resist any longer, John hugged Sherlock from behind, feeling his tense torso under his palm. A heartbeat later, Sherlock uttered a sound resembling a moan and his breathing hitched. He was just about... _oh, so close..._

John nestled up to him with his entire body, and Sherlock froze, completely giving in to John’s control. John’s hand moved quickly, at the same pace he usually handled himself, until Sherlock made a relieved groan and shuddered, ejaculating into his palm. All of it — the groan, the maddening tension, Sherlock’s sperm on his fingers — and John came right after him.

With a sharp exhale, John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, fingers crumpling his shirt.

A quiver was still running through Sherlock’s body and his breathing alternated with soft moans.

“Relax, I’ve got you,” John said.

Sherlock went limp in his arms, and John sagged against the wall. The tiles felt cold against the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“The pain has almost gone,” Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back against John’s shoulder.

“Endorphins,” John explained.

They stood like that for a minute, evening their breathing in silence.

“Would you pull up my trousers? It’s cold.” Sherlock broke away.

“Sure.” John quickly rinsed his hand in the sink and rearranged his clothing.

When he straightened, Sherlock was suddenly very close and in the next moment was pressing his lips against John’s throat, just where one of the scars started. John’s breathing caught when Sherlock ran his tongue along it.

“Don’t,” he asked in a quiet voice, gently pushing away the curly head and meeting the gaze of hazy eyes. “You’re not thinking straight.”

Sherlock was silent, and for a moment John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him.

“You’re right, it’s not the best time,” he said and vacated the bathroom, leaving John alone with his confusion.

 

As John was putting pyjamas on Sherlock and preparing him for the night, Sherlock refused the painkillers for the first time. John was surprised, but didn’t object.

“Will you stay till I’m asleep?” Sherlock asked instead.

“Of course,” John said. He himself had been thinking of staying, should his friend change his mind about the painkillers. At least that was how he explained his reluctance to leave.

Sherlock turned to the wall as John settled next to his legs.

“And John...”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad it’s you.” 


End file.
